


Grievances of a Martyr

by duneytunes



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kaname Tojou is mentioned, Set in the Past, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25264432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duneytunes/pseuds/duneytunes
Summary: Tatsumi has a nightmare.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Grievances of a Martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Needed this out of my system, part two will be happier I promise,,

When he opens his eyes, the hospital’s pristine white ceiling is replaced by a crimson expanse, and the mattress beneath him had turned into dry, prickly grass. He finds himself able to move, the usual burdening weight that had plagued his mornings now nowhere to be felt. And yet he stays there for a while in the comfort (or lack thereof) of his lifeless bedding, feeling the winds brush against his skin, as tender amethysts scanned the skies for any sign of irregularity. Above him, heavy clouds drifted ever so slowly, almost to the point of being still. They accompanied the dreary sky beyond, eerie and spine-chilling to him. _Is this hell?_ The thought comes to mind. Surely, though, God wasn't that cruel to pass judgement so quickly.

_Right._ A small sigh escapes through his nose.

_Perhaps purgatory is more suitable._

He soon has enough of the sight and moves to stand on his feet, noting his perfect mobility, and the absence of the dull ache in his leg where his injury should be. Surely, it would only be in dreams from now on that he’d be able to experience such freedom. He wanders for a little bit in what seemed to be a barren field, stopping only when a gust forces him to flinch. He brings his arms up to shield his eyes of incoming debris, and slowly the sound of the howling gust ringing in his ears dies down. When he opens his eyes again, a familiar figure stands before him with an expression he couldn't read. His gaze moves down to find arms once loosely hugged by a hospital gown now decorated with a dazzling uniform he'd worn once upon a time. though once adored and seen as a symbol of hope to many, his eyes can only see fabric of white stained with ichor. He grimaces, and the uniform feels like a crown of thorns upon his head.

“Some saint you turned out to be.” The stinging words that come from the figure cuts through the silence. “Are you happy now, Kazehaya?”

“...Kaname-san,” Tatsumi’s throat feels dry, even in this dream sequence. Then again, it felt appropriate for the situation. “I’m--”

“I don’t want your apology.” He snaps, eyes the color of dull, unpolished gold.

“Of course not.” He returns the sharp gaze with a forlorn smile, a face once harbouring an intense desire for change and rebellion now mellowed down. Used, broken, sacrificed-- His body had broken down, no longer able to carry out what the mind wanted no matter how fervent. “Do you hate me?”

The figure standing before him remains silent, but Tatsumi already knows the answer.

For bestowing false hope, for leading those who had considered him their saviour into damnation-- he knew the punishment for such a sin. And so he toiled away in an effort for repentance, knowing full well forgiveness was no longer an option for the amount of those he'd wronged, at least not within his lifetime. He worked himself to the bone, until his vessel became worn like the dry grass beneath his feet. The warm winds soon grow scorching, and yet Tatsumi feels another pain far incomparable in this dream where he’s faced with the sorrows he’s imposed upon those he was supposed to bring deliverance to.

He inhales and feels the wrath of his surroundings in his lungs, and he shuts his eyes as the sting spreads across his chest, threatening to wrap around his throat. The graceless thorns of guilt thrive inside of him, and he _feels_ it with every beat of his heart. They press against his windpipe and it leaves him gasping for the torturous winds. Louder, and louder, the thumping of his heart drums in his ears, resounding, echoing, becoming a maddening inescapable cacophony.

The sound of a trumpet cries out like a ghastly screech, and it splits him apart.

Tatsumi wakes up from his nightmare gripping the sheets of his hospital bed. His vision readjusts, and he finds the familiar ceiling-- the same one he’s grown acquainted with over the past few months. Though every morning he’d dread having to wake up to the same, stagnant sight, it was only now that he felt relief to see it. A faint breeze blows through the room to help him become aware of the thin lining of sweat that had covered his skin. He shivers, shaken as if he’d seen a ghost-- though no doubt he would’ve been less rattled if it was truly a ghost, not that he necessarily believed in them. Truthfully, the souls of the departed were far less terrifying than the living. He reaches for the glass sitting atop the table by his bedside, and he argues with himself for a moment to shy away from picking up the blister pack beside it.

Tired eyes flutter shut once more, and he relaxes his breathing, urging himself to head back to sleep. He convinces himself to rest once more, that there was nothing to fear. He begs himself to have faith-- he has to, for faith is practically the one thing he has left, and even then it was so scarce.

He turns from one side to another, repeating the same tossing and turning for a bit longer. It feels like an eternity, but when he cracks an eye open to check the clock, to his dismay he finds that it’s only been about ten minutes. With a heavy sigh, he sits up and leans against the headboard with defeat, hands resting atop his lap. At the very least, the turbulence in his heart had come to a calm, but the mind was much harder to please. It remembers the pain, real or not, and it forced everything else in his body to _remember._ He feels the familiar weight hit him, and yet his head refuses to offer him respite for fear of what it was forced to bear mere minutes ago. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he laments the inevitability of falling back into what he’d rather avoid. 

Taking the blister pack from the side, he pops one, two pills onto his palm to swallow, following it with what water was left inside his glass. He wipes away the water that had dripped down his chin, and lies back down, eyes once more gluing themselves to the dull ceiling above.

He waits. Patiently, he waits.

...And for a brief moment, he wonders if two would be enough. If two was all he deserved. If maybe the whole blister pack can do, ensure that no more nightmares will come his way awake or not.

_No… I can’t…_

He shuts his eyes, brows furrowing as his lips press into a thin line. He brings an arm over his eyes, and he wonders to himself why he would allow himself even a moment to cry. He condemns the part of him that wants to weep, the part that so much as suggests that he wasn’t deserving of this torture and guilt. A choked sob echoes throughout the empty room and is met by no one, and for once in his life he feels as if he has no one-- nothing to turn to.

The medicine brings much needed aid to soothe his torrent of thoughts though forced as it may seem. It’s better than nothing, and he allows himself this chance of finding respite. His breathing becomes steadier, and the next few hours go by without incidence. The moon sinks out of sight, making way for dawn to break. Another morning lies in wait, ready to be greeted by the martyr’s weary soul.

**Author's Note:**

> brain: how many religious references do u want  
> me: yes


End file.
